


we sing our broken song

by but_seriously



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-28
Updated: 2014-01-28
Packaged: 2018-01-10 08:48:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1157598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/but_seriously/pseuds/but_seriously
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Do you pray, my lord?" she asks suddenly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we sing our broken song

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: Dolls

Tyrion finds dolls propped against her window whenever he drops by Sansa’s chambers to sup in the evenings. They’re small and identical to one another, with red smiles and stringy bits of hair, with laces down their front and eyes embroidered blue and brown and gray, but never green.

Sansa blows daintily on her soup, seemingly unaware of the way his eyes keep trailing over to them. Stitched together finely, those dolls, and suddenly he’s quite certain that they were handmade by Lady Sansa herself. He wants to ask, but can’t quite find the words, or the will for it. More wine will loosen his tongue, perhaps.

The next time he comes, Sansa is perched on the window ledge, staring out at the blue sky that seemed to stretch on forever, her eyes still ringed with the colour of shed tears. There is a doll in her hands, and seems to be tearing it apart with her bare hands. Another doll is already lying by her side, its neck severed, wild stitches fraying and curling through the torn fabric. Tyrion realizes with a pang that both dolls have embroidered-blue eyes and stringy red hair. He reaches for the wine.

He doesn’t sup with her for a week, but when he finally does, colour has returned to her cheeks as she sits on her bed, needle and thread in hand. The finished dolls in a pile beside her all have green eyes and bright yellow hair. The one that Sansa is working on is still without hair, but he can see the beginings of one green eye.

Sansa looks up from her stitching when she hears him come in, but does not beckon him closer. “Do you still pray, my lord?” she asks suddenly.

He does not, he wants to say, not really, but he finds himself fervently hoping that the other eye Sansa is about to stitch isn’t black, and wonders if it’s all the same. At his silence, Sansa just smiles.

 


End file.
